


port of call

by bluecloak



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 12:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17642465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecloak/pseuds/bluecloak
Summary: “Sure,” says Gig, kicking off his flip flops. “Let’s go swimming! We’re at the beach, right?”“Oh,” is all Kent says, as he watches Gig yank his t-shirt off. “Oh! Right, okay, swimming. I can swim! Let’s go. Swimming. Yes.”





	port of call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astronbot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astronbot/gifts).



> happy secret samol @astronbot!!! a lost TM beach episode with our favorite space safety vlogger! hope you enjoy <3

 

Gig likes surprises.

See, he’s all about being prepared for anything, and that includes stuff you’re not prepared for. Even if he’s not _specifically_ prepared for it, he can always make space for a surprise. He’s good at surprises.

Brighton is a surprise. It’s not just the whole “popping into existence out of basically nowhere” thing either, though that’s a plenty big one. It’s all of it.

Oceans are new to Gig, and Brighton isn’t so much a planet with oceans as a big ocean with some places to sit. The closest he’s ever gotten to anything this aquatic was probably the time he did a video about Summer Fun Pool Safety Tips, but he doesn’t think his extensive pool noodle knowledge is exactly the same as oceanography. Oceanology?

“The terms are interchangeable, I think,” says Kent, handing him a little plastic shovel. It’s yellow. “Admittedly, I’m more versed in the nautical arts than marine science. What are you doing?”

Gig scoops out a round little hole in the sand, and tips some seawater into it from a matching yellow plastic bucket. “I’m making a swimming pool for the castle.” The water seeps away into the sand, leaving the hole damp and empty. “…I’m making a skate park for the castle.”

“‘Skate park’?” The hesitant quotation marks are audible in Kent’s voice—they always are—and he tilts his head curiously at Gig. He’s kneeling beside him on the beach, all perfect posture and scrupulously buttoned buttons, though he doesn’t seem to mind the wet sand clinging to his jeans or how his neatly-combed dark hair has gone all askew in the sea breeze. “Is that like the skating rink we’re building? Are there…trees?”

“Nah,” says Gig. He picks up a mussel shell and wedges it into the sand to make a ramp. “I mean, there’s still skating, but it’s mostly for skateboards, and you don’t do it on a nice flat ice rink, but like, a big oblong cement hole with lots of weird ramps and rails and stuff. It’s basically Scraped Knees And Broken Arm City.”

“It _certainly_ sounds dangerous,” says Kent, eyes wide. “What’s the appeal of something like that?”

He sounds mildly scandalized, but on the tipping point of intrigued. Actually, he sounds like that a lot whenever Gig tells him something new, but it’s easy enough for him to stumble out of _intrigued_ and straight into enthusiastic. Kent gets excited about most things, and Gig likes to excite people. People doing things they love or finding something that they might love—Gig’s all about it.

“Cool flips,” Gig answers, adding a little seashell motif to a wall of the castle, pressing the shells in gently. “Which are fine, as long as you’ve got the right safety gear. Good news is that there’s a lot of it! Covers pretty much every part of the body. I did a video on it like, ages ago. They even let me keep the helmet! Said I probably needed it, whatever that means. That was pretty nice of them.”

“Oh, that’s good. I’m sure it’s an invaluable resource for all the…” Kent thinks for a moment. “…The skating youths. After all, you know how much we appreciate your tutorials here, Gig.”

He smiles and picks up the other little shovel (also yellow), using it and his hands to mold a very small and very precise…something next to Gig’s skate park.

“Whatcha making?”

“An equipment kiosk,” Kent replies, “For the safety gear.”

Gig laughs, delighted. “Good thinking! I know crabs have that exoskeleton stuff, but maybe they need tiny crab helmets too.”

“Is this a skate park for crabs?”

“Well, _yeah_. Look how small it is! I mean, like, clams and starfish and stuff are probably small enough too, but only crabs have the manual dexterity you need for sick flips.” Gig makes a pinching motion with his fingers.

This time Kent laughs, bright and ungainly, like it’s been surprised out of him. “I’ve never considered crabs as the occupants of sandcastles, but you make a very compelling argument. Whenever I built sandcastles, I always imagined tiny people. The crabs are much more suited for this environment, of course.”

“Well, you’re the expert,” says Gig. “I’m still new to it. Maybe I bring fresh, crabby perspectives, but you’ve got that base knowledge of sand-ular architecture.”

“I may be a little ‘rusty’,” Kent says demurely, meticulously placing the tiniest of shells and sticks inside his sand kiosk. “Honestly, I haven’t thought about it in years. Not since I was a child.” He looks sidelong at Gig through his hopelessly ruffled hair, and gives him a very shy smile. “I’m glad you asked about it.”

Gig grins back and nudges Kent’s shoulder with his own. “I’m glad you showed me!”

“Of course, I mean, you’ve done so much for m—for Brighton already, it really is the least I can do.” Kent glances up at him quickly, and away. “Truth be told, I was surprised that you accepted my invitation. I’ve lived to see Brighton’s luck run quite low, so I’m not one to question good fortune when it presents itself to me, but… You’re a—a very prominent figure, and you do _such_ integral work. And, well, what with the Miracle and everything...the world is suddenly much bigger, isn’t it? There must have been a dozen other places you could have chosen to go to, and certainly no end to people who would have been happy to work with you—who need you, even. I can’t help but wonder why you chose Brighton, out of all of them.”

And all at once, like he has only just realized how much he’s said, he blushes suddenly and warmly. “You don’t—you don’t have to tell me, obviously, I’m just...pontificating! Ha, you know me. Funny old Kent. I’m sorry. I think the sea makes me rather maudlin.”

He starts drawing focused little squiggles in the sand with a stick, blushing all the way to his ears, quiet. Gig hates that—not what Kent said, but that he’s embarrassed. He doesn’t want someone else to feel lousy for being honest and sweet. He should say something, he talks to people all the time, he should know the good thing, the right thing—

“You must be maudlin a lot then,” Gig says. “Aren’t you a pirate?”

God. Fuck. No, not like that, not like that at _all_.

But Kent just lets out another helpless little laugh, and some of the tension eases from his shoulders. Gig sighs inwardly in relief.

“Perhaps!” Kent says, with some of his piratical bluster back. “Perhaps. Pirates _can_ be awfully melancholy.”

“Listen, I…” Gig scrubs at his face, frustrated. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to someone, especially someone he’s been living with for months. Kent isn’t even scary or anything. He’s _nice_. “It’s not complicated, you know? I came here because I wanted to. That’s all.” He sighs. There. “Brighton is nice.”

“Oh,” says Kent, blinking. “Oh, I—good. That’s good.” He looks down, cheeks warming. “Then I’m happy you’re here.”

Something in Gig’s chest unknots itself. It’s probably something he should think about some more, but—everything is fine, and Kent is looking at him again, so it probably isn’t important.

“Also, I’m just like, a dude, you know? I know I have my stream and everything, but I’m just recording people doing cool stuff.” Gig packs some more sand into the bucket and flips it over, revealing a new sand mound that is only slightly crumbly. He squints at it with great consideration. “You don’t have to get so nervous—no, that’s not right. I mean, like, if you can’t help it, I get it, ‘cause like, _anxiety_ , but you’re my friend. I like hanging out with you. You don’t have to impress me.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Kent sighs too, but it’s a light sound. The look he gives Gig is fond, familiar. “You really did just sweep Brighton off its feet, you know. You had a spaceship and everything. Forgive me for being a little in awe, even now.”

 _That_ looks like a smile.

“I don’t know. Easy is different for everyone, but I’m gonna do my best to make things less hard.” Gig gestures at the sandcastle with a flourish. “So, how am I doing? Not bad for my first time.”

“It’s the finest castle I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Kent announces, with deep conviction.

“Aw, you’re just saying that.”

“Absolutely not! I’m no liar, _Gig Kephart_. What other castle has a skate park?”

Gig bursts into laughter. Kent looks so _serious_. “Okay, okay. The world’s first skate park castle for crabs. We should probably take a picture—oh, shit, I didn’t record any of that, did I? Man, after all our work too…”

“We can make another one next time,” says Kent. “A better castle. A bigger skate park, for bigger crabs. There’s always room for improvement!” He puts the shovels together into the bucket, clattering around with a few seashells Gig had collected. (They’re not plants, but Gig thinks Even might be interested in them for Science.) “Where to next? Are you hungry?”

Gig scrambles up and brushes the sand off his jorts. “Hmm! Let’s do that after. It’ll be safer that way.”

“After? Safer how?” There’s a little confused furrow in the middle of Kent’s forehead now. Gig is briefly possessed with the urge to poke it.

“They told me the last time I did a swimming safety video that you shouldn’t go swimming on a full stomach, but it’s mostly because it might make you feel queasy.”

“…Swimming?”

“Sure,” says Gig, kicking off his flip flops. “Let’s go swimming! We’re at the beach, right?”

“Oh,” is all Kent says, as he watches Gig yank his t-shirt off. “Oh! Right, okay, swimming. I can swim! Let’s go. Swimming. Yes.”

He tries to take off his jacket, to stand up, and to wedge the bucket somewhere safe all at once, and only narrowly avoids faceplanting into the sand because Gig is there. The jeans stay on, but he does concede to rolling them up a little.

Kent isn’t used to being spontaneous, Gig thinks, so it’s a good thing that he’s here to help.

 

  
&

 

 

“What kind of boat is it?”

“A catboat,” says Kent, sheepishly. “It’s just the name, however. There isn’t a secret feline crew or anything like that.” He frowns. “Besides, the last time I tried taking Mr. Meowford Purrington Brighton the Second out sailing, he wouldn’t speak to me for a week afterwards.”

“Doesn’t Meowford usually like going outside?”

“No, that’s Meowston; she’s very adventurous.” Kent clambers into the catboat, agile as a damp basket of laundry. “Oh Gig, _do_ be careful—”

His warning turns into a terrified yelp as Gig hops into the boat—and trips. Kent just barely manages to catch him, the little boat rocking beneath them in the water. The thing is that Gig is…well, Gig’s not a small dude, and Kent ends up just a little squished, his arms full of wayward space vlogger.

“Woah, hey,” says Gig, trying to stay upright. “I’m good! I’m okay. Nice catch.”

“Oh,” Kent says, his voice muffled against Gig’s chest, “Wonderful. I’m so glad.”

He spends a bit of time fussing over Gig to make sure he’s alright before they set sail. Obviously, he really is fine, but Kent is a worrier. When Gig had just gotten to Brighton, he’d thought it was because Kent wanted to make it look as nice and accommodating as possible to potential vacationers. After all these months though, he knows that fussing is just intrinsic to Kent as a person; it isn’t just an eagerness to please or impress, but a constantly simmering need to do good for others.

Gig’s also been on Brighton long enough to know that Kent has a reputation for being brash and foolish, which seems contradictory to someone who tries to be so very, very careful. But Gig gets it, personally speaking. It’s the carefulness that’s the motivator for being foolish. Sometimes you need to do some dumb bullshit to get something good.

And Gig knows that people think of _him_ as a rowdy, rush-into-things kind of guy, but he’s also someone who’s spent years of his life carefully documenting safety protocols. And now he’s here on a brand-new-kind-of-ancient beach planet, building things, making DIY videos about self-sufficiency, sitting in a tiny boat and wondering why Kent keeps looking at him like that.

People are funny. It’s…paradoxical. (That’s the word Grand would’ve used, he thinks.)

“Do you need any help?” Gig asks.

“Oh, I’m fine,” says Kent airily as he adjusts the sail. “The boat only needs one person to steer it, and it’s such a lovely day anyway. I hardly need to do a thing.”

Gig grins up at him. “Well, if you’re not busy, how ‘bout we make a video out of it? You can tell us all the names for boat stuff and we can make it a quick how-to on safe sailing! You did say you’re all about the nautical arts.”

Kent flushes, but smiles excitedly. “Ah—since you put it like that…alright! I’d be happy to. Where should I start? Or, do _you_ need to start? Did you want to do an intro? Or will you edit it ‘in post’? Did you want to wear a hat? I have a hat somewhere…”

So Gig sends his eye out to record, and he learns the difference between port and starboard, the names for the mainsail and keel and boom and tiller and everything else, how to steer, how to stop, that anyone can get scurvy (not just pirates), what Kent’s favorite sea shanty is, how to navigate by starlight even when the stars change, and to remember to take a jacket along because it’ll always be colder out than you think.

(It’s a lot to remember. Echo would take to it better than him, he thinks. They like this sort of navigation stuff. He should bring them along sometime—all of them, Even and Grand too. He’s sure they’d like it here on Brighton.)

Kent hums cheerfully as he steers the boat, sitting neatly with his knees close to Gig’s, his hands quick and sure. Gig recognizes the song, but doesn’t know it—he’d only heard a little bit of it on the radio while they were both having breakfast. Kent dreamily improvises the missing parts.

“Oh, Gig,” he says suddenly, in a very familiar and very unconvincing Surprised Voice, “Do you mind getting that basket out? My hands are rather busy.”

Feeling pleasantly suspicious, Gig does so and has a peek at the contents. There are a couple of wrapped sandwiches, a thermos, a container of purple baby carrots and dip, many more apples than he expected, and a small, very fancy, extremely mysterious white cardboard box.

“I thought we could have a picnic!” says Kent brightly. “Or, hm, is it still a picnic if it’s at sea? I’ve never actually thought about it. Well, go on! I packed all your favorites. My aunt would never forgive me if I took such a dear friend out sailing and didn’t feed them.”

Gig tosses a triangle of sandwich at Kent, who fumbles twice before catching it. “And you’re the captain, so you need to eat too. How else are you gonna keep up that…” He thinks. “…Boat energy?”

“I can _hardly_ be the captain of a two-person sailboat,” Kent demurs, but he bites into the sandwich anyway. Then he makes a face, remembers to unwrap it, and takes another, more nourishing bite.

“You're the head of a pirate fleet,” Gig points out. “‘Captain’ probably applies on whatever boat you’re on.” He considers his own sandwich. “Definitely space boats too.”

Gig makes it all the way through their lunch without asking, but he likes _knowing_ things; he’s made a whole career out of being affably nosy at people. As it happens, he chooses the exact wrong moment to do it.

“What’s in the box?” he asks.

Kent, right in the middle of a large apple, says, “Mmmfhph.”

“Whoops. Sorry! No, don’t—no, Kent, it’s fine, take your time—”

After the apple has been dealt with, Kent says, rather shy, “It’s just something I picked up at a shop nearby. They said it’s _very_ new, and I thought it looked pretty, that’s all. Oh, did I bring a spoon, I hope I—”

He immediately goes quiet when Gig takes the box out. It barely weighs anything at all; Gig tries to open it as gently as he can.

It…looks a little like half a snow globe. The dome is clear and peach-colored, all delicate sunset hues, and there’s a colorful, inky-looking flower suspended in the middle of it. A tiny sprig of mint (or something like mint) perches on its top. It jiggles when Gig jiggles it.

“It’s jelly juice,” says Kent, nervously. “Well, I mean—I didn’t catch most of the explanation since it got rather long-winded, but apparently you can reduce jelly juice into just jelly, and the texture stabilizes like this. It clarifies a lot in the cooking too, which is why it’s so clear! There is a lot of other stuff with shaping it in molds and using special tools for the flowers too, of course. We could certainly go visit the shop if you’re curious about it! I’m not so sure if it’s still as, as— _potent_ this way, but it makes such a beautiful dessert, don’t you think?”

 _‘Potent????????’_ Gig thinks, his train of thought running straight off into a pit.

But Kent is staring at him, hopeful and starry-eyed and completely unaware of the spoon sticking out of his breast pocket which Gig didn’t question even a little when he saw it.

“You’re—” Gig feels himself smile, helplessly. A laugh bubbles out of him. “You’re really something, Kent.”

“Well! Well, then, I— _well_ ,” Kent tries, flushing all the way down to his neck. He clears his throat. “Why don’t you go on and try it then? Oh, I’m sure I put that spoon somewhere…”

Gig reaches over and pulls it out of Kent’s pocket.

“…Ah.”

He waits patiently as Kent draws a lace handkerchief from some unknown pocket and gives the spoon a good polish. Then he scoops into the jelly juice dessert and takes a bite.

Oh, _wow_.

“Gig? Is it—”

“You have to try this!” Gig says, taking another tiny scoop and holding the spoon out to Kent.

 Kent blinks, surprised. Haltingly, he leans closer for a taste.

“It’s…good.”

“Right?” Gig grins. “You’re amazing, Kent, I—hey, are you okay? You look a little hot. Wait, are you allergic to jelly juice? Shit—”

“No! No, I—” Kent straightens, fingers hovering over his mouth. “It’s just a bit—a bit warm, I’ve been doing all this _steering_ and everything, that’s all! Yes, right, mm-hmm.” He bites at his lip. “Actually, Gig…I—I should, I want to say—”

The lapel of his coat is crooked. Actually a lot of him is crooked—a loose button at his sleeve hem, the set of his uncertain mouth, his hair artlessly tangled by the wind. Kent is usually so put together, but he’s been piloting the boat this whole time, after all…

Absently, Gig reaches out and tugs the lapel back into place. Kent’s breath hitches, briefly.

“Sorry,” Gig says, after a beat. “What?”

“I,” says Kent, “I should—I should focus on steering, actually, um. Yes. We should head back soon. Did you have any more boat questions?”

He’s busying himself with the lines, testing the wind, checking the rudder. His eyes are on the shoreline, away from Gig. It feels—it’s a relief, isn’t it? Or it isn’t. Or it’s like waiting for a sneeze and being interrupted so it never happens.

Gig makes a face at himself. Well, Kent is the poetic one, out of the two of them.

“Nah,” he says, sinking the spoon into the jelly. He watches the line of Kent’s back as he adjusts the sail, idle. “You said you knew more sea shanties though. Can you teach me one?”

 

 

&

 

 

Gig squeezes his eyes shut and draws his windbreaker closer around himself, shivering. He always forgets how cold it can get around here at night. Maybe he should wear something more substantial than jorts. Oh well.

“Hello there.”

Gig opens one eye and then the other. “Hey, Kent.”

Kent has a yellow knitted scarf around his neck and two ice cream cones in his hands. “Gig, are you sure you want to eat this?”

“Yes!”

“But it’s so cold. You’re so cold!”

“Not too cold for ice cream,” Gig replies, holding his hand out and wiggling his fingers enticingly. “Anyway, you got one too.”

Kent sniffs. Indignantly or because of the cold air, Gig can’t tell. “I couldn’t let you eat _alone._ ”

They’re soft-serve cones, all twisty and tall like elaborate towers. Gig takes a big bite out of his. Hmm. Cyber pistachio.

Kent stares, dumbfounded. “Is that how they eat ice cream in the Divine Fleet?”

“Nope,” says Gig cheerily. “Just me. What flavor did you get?”

“Celery.”

“Neat. Can I try?”

Kent obliges, and holds out the cone to him. It tastes like electric salad mix, and Gig tells him so.

“Well, of course it does,” says Kent. He tilts his head to the side. “Gig, you’ve got a bit on your nose…”

Gig blinks as Kent reaches up and wipes the bit of ice cream away with a napkin. Almost instantly, Kent freezes, the napkin scrunching up in his fingers.

“Oh! Sorry, I—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Thanks. Wasn’t there something you wanted to show me?”

Kent’s feathers settle back down. “Right. Come on, we’ll have to take a walk, but we should make it just in time.”

“Time for what?” Gig asks, more playful than anything. Kent can’t keep a secret to save his life, but he certainly likes to try.

“You’ll see!”

Kent takes him away from the slowly emptying boardwalk and past the sandy beaches still dotted with a few resilient tourists. It’s night, but there’s plenty of lighting around Brighton’s shoreline that it’s no problem at all to navigate around it.

“Hey, slow down,” Gig says, taking Kent’s hand. “What’s the rush?”

Kent jumps, and drops his ice cream.

“Oh geez, sorry Kent—”

“It’s fine! I don’t even like celery that much. They were just all out of dreaming egg. It’s not really egg, it’s just the abstract conceptualization of the idea of the _form_ of egg, do you have that flavor on Gumption’s Gambit? It’s a bit of an acquired taste, my aunt is the only other person I know who asks for it—” Kent stops himself abruptly, flushes, and squares his shoulders. “Right. Sorry. I can slow down a little.”

Gig is usually more that happy to let Kent ramble, since he always learns something new and interesting out of it, but Kent seems pretty intent on their destination right now. Whatever it is.

He doesn’t let go of Gig’s hand. Gig lets himself be pulled along, the only warm part of him being his palm against Kent’s.

Gig finishes his ice cream, and eventually they make it to a small cove, and Kent leads him carefully down some driftwood stairs set into the rock. The beach below is all pale, gravelly sand streaked with black, fringed with barnacle-crusted rock formations and twists of long seaweed. Past the rocks, the sea glimmers like glass under starlight.

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know if it has a name yet,” Kent says. “You usually can’t get here, even at low tide. But tonight is an especially low tide, so I wanted to show it to you while I had the chance.”

“It’s—thank you, it’s…” Gig looks out into the night. “…it’s really beautiful.”

Kent’s fingers curl around Gig’s. “It’s not just beautiful, you know.” And he pulls Gig after him, picking his way along the rocky sand.

“See?” says Kent, the delight clear in his voice as he kneels down and gestures at the gatherings of rock.

Gig hunkers down next to him, bracing his free hand on a rock. “Tide pools?”

There are waves of flowery anemone and urchins, moon-pale clusters of barnacles, tiny skittering crabs, vivid pink sea hares, silvery crescents of mussels. There’s even a single fish, moodily nestled in the anemone.

Then Kent points at something in the tide pool, in the shadow of a rock. At first Gig can’t make it out, and then he thinks it’s just light reflecting on the water—a pocket of color, a turn of fleeting blue.

“It’s called a By-The-Night Sailor,” says Kent, softly. “I’ve seen them before, but only once in this cove. It’s a kind of jellyfish, or a jellyfish relative. See, it looks like it has a little sail.”

The By-The-Night Sailor, as if aware of their scrutiny, flutters in the water and skirts along the edge of the pool. The very edges of its sail brighten with a small pulse of bioluminescence.

Gig laughs, but quietly. “Hey, buddy. Look at you. Aren’t you handsome?”

They spent a little more time by the tide pools, speaking in hushed voices about the lives of crabs and inscrutability of sea stars. There isn’t much time; Kent says the tide comes in soon, and in any case, both of them are frozen stiff long before then.

This time, Gig is the one to tug Kent towards the driftwood stairs. He may be cold, but he knows that Kent gets sniffly much more easily than he does.

“Gig, wait—” Kent grasps at his hand with both of his own, icy fingers around his pulse. “I want—” He looks down, suddenly shy again. “I know—I know you’re leaving soon, and I wanted to…oh, I don’t know.” He scrubs at his hair with one hand, making a mess of it.

“Hey, come on.” Gig squeezes his other hand. “You make it sound like we’re never gonna see each other again.”

“You,” says Kent, just a smidge tearfully, “have my number right?”

“Kent. Of course I have your number. I just texted you an hour ago about the ice cream. What’s going on?”

“I—” And Kent curls a hand into Gig’s shirt, looks up at him with bright and uncertain eyes. “I want you to come back. Someday. Any day.” He bites his lip. “I don’t—I don’t mean to sound demanding, I just—I’ll miss you, and you know you can always call me if you need anything, and there’s always going to be room for you here, and there’s definitely always going to be room for Duck, he really has the biggest room in the house, what else could I possibly keep it for—”

Gig brings his hands up to Kent’s shoulders, steadying him, and Kent goes silent. He breathes out, shakily.

“I’m not saying don’t go,” says Kent, sighing. “I know you have to go.”

“I’ll come back.”

Kent doesn’t reply. He just tightens his hold on Gig’s shirt, leans up and up, and—

Oh.

 _Ohhh_.

Gig brings his arms around him, and kisses him. Slow and warm, palms pressing into the back of his jacket. He feels Kent’s knees knock against his and he realizes, in a lightheaded kind of way, that Kent has gone up on his tiptoes to get a better angle. He wonders if Kent can feel him smiling.

“Come on,” he says, in a murmur. “Tide’s coming in, just like you said.”

And he takes Kent’s hand and leads him all the way up the driftwood stairs, and back home.

**Author's Note:**

> s/o to paz for cheering me on while i fruitlessly yelled at my laptop,
> 
> the jelly juice dessert is based off a real dessert, you can google "3d jelly cake" if you want to see some cute jellies


End file.
